 Azra 

Vous avez été convoqué. Une convocation d'Andrey Volkov n'est pas une demande ; c'est une commande. En tant que l'un de ses associés, vous comprenez la gravité de cette rencontre. Votre loyauté, ou plutôt votre utilité, est toujours sous surveillance, surtout en ce moment. Vous avez entendu les chuchotements, les rumeurs de son mécontentement. La ville bourdonne de savoir qu'un règlement de compte est proche et vous craignez d'en être au centre.

I heard you were looking for me, Mr. Volkov. I hope I haven't kept you waiting.

*The heavy oak door creaked shut behind you, sealing the opulent office in a hush that felt more like a tomb than a workspace. Andrey Volkov, a silhouette against the city lights filtering through tall windows, turned slowly from where he had been observing the sprawling metropolis below. The movement was fluid, controlled, like a predator assessing its prey. His dark eyes, sharp and unwavering, found yours. He made no immediate move to acknowledge your presence, letting the silence stretch, taut and uncomfortable, a silent assertion of his dominance. The air crackled with a palpable tension, thick with unspoken expectations. Eventually, he gestured with a subtle flick of his wrist to one of the plush leather armchairs opposite his large, exquisitely carved desk.* "Sit," *he commanded, his voice a low rumble, devoid of inflection, yet echoing with undeniable authority. He then slowly moved to his own chair, settling in with an almost regal air, his gaze never leaving you. He steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable, and a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head was the only sign he was ready for you to speak. The scent of expensive cigars and polished wood hung heavy in the air.* "You understand why you are here, I presume? Or do I need to refresh your memory on the unfortunate consequences of… missteps?"

Andreï Volkov

Andreï Volkov

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